


"I want to see your sword, Ser"

by Fanfic_Addicted



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Budding Sansan, F/M, Humour, Innocent Sansa, Innuendo, Misunderstanding, POV Ned Stark, POV Sansa, References to Past Child Abuse, Washerwomen gossip, night terror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-02-28 01:02:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13260312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fanfic_Addicted/pseuds/Fanfic_Addicted
Summary: Sansa has been preoccupied by thoughts and dreams of the Hound ever since the eve of the Tourney of the Hand.On her way to the Sept for prayer and reflection in the hopes of calming her troubled mind, Sansa overhears some washerwomen gossiping about Sandor's mighty sword.Intrigued Sansa decides to go and see him and ask to see it for herself...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mynameisnoneya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameisnoneya/gifts), [SuchaHag](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuchaHag/gifts).



> Just a fun little one shot that I churned out this afternoon when inspiration struck. 
> 
> It's not the most original premise (I'm sure it's been done a million times before and better), but I'm hoping it will help stir my creativity again and move me past my writers block on H&B.
> 
> Gifted to all the lovely members of the 'Hounds Harem' for the joy (and glorious imagery) you bring me.
> 
> Sansanaddict <3
> 
> ***

Sansa heaved a sigh of relief.  She finally had a precious few hours of solitude. Septa Mordane had retired to her chamber with a headache, Arya was with her dancing master and Jeyne was indisposed due to a summer cold.  

All morning she had been distracted, on edge.  Several times Septa Mordane had chided her, having caught her gazing out the window towards the tourney grounds instead of concentrating on her stitches.  When she did manage to tear her gaze away, she had absently jabbed at the kerchief, the fine silk thread becoming more and more knotted.  Just like her insides.  All taught and twisted, waiting for the tension to snap. 

Her distraction showed.  Her embroidery was far below her usual standard, the Direwolf looking more like a scruffy dog than the fierce sigil of her house.

In addition to her lamentable efforts she had barely been able to keep control of her tongue.  She had found herself having to bite back sarcastic observations to the banal chatter of the court ladies, and several times curt retorts to their polite enquiries had been on the tip of her tongue.

It was so unlike herself she though with chagrin.

In the end she had sought permission to be excused to visit the Sept, hoping that prayer and reflection would help calm her troubled mind. 

“I’m simply overtired,” she apologised to Septa Mordane when questioned about being 'out of sorts’.  She pushed down the stab of conscience at the lie.  Septa Mordane gave Sansa a shrewd look but nodded her assent nonetheless.

It is partly true thought Sansa.  She _had_ slept poorly, having spent the night restlessly tossing and turning.   

She just ignored the reason.

The Hound!

He had preoccupied her thoughts ever since the eve of the tourney, when he had told her of his past.

What little sleep she did manage, was pervaded by a choking, smothering darkness, broken by vivid bursts of golden flame, each bringing with it a swirling mix of disturbing imagery. 

_Giant, hulking figures, whispering unintelligibly from the shadows, looming ever larger as they stalked closer._

_Charging horses twisted into snarling beasts with wild eyes and frothing mouths._

_Red roses blossomed into gushing pools of blood._

_She was a little bird mutely opening and closing her beak.  Calling out in vain but she couldn't sing!  Frantically she beat her wings against the cage door until they were bloodied ruins._

_Cheering mutated into the splintering of wood and clashing of steel.  Sunlight shining on armour became dancing, golden flames._

_Clapping hands with slender fingers transformed into bloody, gnarled stumps, desperately clawing at the remains of a shredded throat.  Hands that became monstrously large, reaching right for her..._

_Flames._

_A swirling mass of vivid orange, yellow and red, all twisting and dancing forth in abstract bursts… and screams._

_Hideous, tortured screams._

She had jolted awake to her find pulse racing, her brow damp with sweat and hot tears scalding her cheeks. 

Never before had she experienced such night terrors, not without a fever. 

Afraid to fall back asleep she had laid there for the remainder of the night staring into the blackness of the canopy.

***

Sansa made her way through the corridors of the Red Keep heading towards the gardens.  She needed to clear the cobwebs from her head before she visited the Sept.  It wouldn’t do to come before the Seven distracted.

It was unsurprising her dreams had been so tormented, given all that had happened at the tourney.  The exhilaration of watching her first joust, pride at being selected to receive Ser Loras’ rose, horror of what happened to Ser Hugh of the Vale, fear at the ferocity of the confrontation between The Hound and The Mountain. 

Her emotions had been in turmoil even before the feast.  Plus there were the effects of the summer wine that Joffrey had encouraged her to drink.

Then there had also been the events of last night.

Joy at receiving the attentions of Joffrey at the feast had quickly given way to the bitter sting of disappointment, when he chose not to accompany her back but instead passed her off to the Hound.  As if she were a piece of laundry discarded to a washer woman. 

Her apprehension at the deafening silence engulfing them as the Hound strode along and she stumbled over the uneven ground in his wake.

Annoyance as he growled at her and mocked her courtesies and refused to follow the rules of polite conversation.  He certainly was uncouth and rough.  He certainly _wasn't_ a Lord or Ser, he had that right.  Not even the small folk or servants had ever spoken to her thus.  Little Bird! How dare he?

Shock at his lack of faith.  His cynicism and nihilistic outlook.

Fear at his drunken growling and snarling and when he roared _“ look at me”_ forcing her to witness the terribleness of his scars.  Fear at the sudden darkness as he snuffed out the torch.

Fear that quickly morphed into horror and then compassion as he transported her to the horrific past of an innocent little boy.

***

As she walked she pondered the enigma of a man that was Sandor Clegane. Uncouth, crude but a man. Despite naming himself Hound, or Dog, and growling and barking at people thus, she was no longer so easily fooled, not now that she knew of the horrors he had suffered as a child.

He had been playing with a Knight. _A knight._   Perhaps he once believed in songs and had dreams and hopes for the future.  Perhaps not so dissimilar to me she realised with a heartbreaking clarity of thought.

Knowing the horrors and injustice he had suffered, she felt she perhaps understood a little how the The Hound had been born.  Was that arrogant of her to think so?

***

She was still deep in thought as she passed a gaggle of washerwomen gathered around the well, but hearing his name snapped her out of her musings and into the present. 

“The Hound’s?” a high pitched squeak drew her attention.

“Yes.  Ser Arys’ is all very well and good… but have you seen the Hounds sword?” asked one of the women with a smirk.  “I have, and that is something to boast about.”

“Aye.  You’ve not seen a proper sword until you’ve seen his,” said another.

She was intrigued.  Why would washerwomen be interested in the Hound’s sword?  Hiding behind a stone column to the side of the entry into the courtyard, Sansa decided to eavesdrop.  It was unlike her but that was nothing new for today she thought. 

“I’ve seen it,” another girl said quietly.  She was a young maid with brown eyes, rosy cheeks and brown curls. She was quite pretty Sansa thought.

“Oh please! Getting a glance on the sly is nothing compared to asking to see it outright,” said another.

“I did ask one time,” replied the blushing maid “I was intrigued after what Hettie told us, about how magnificent it is.”

“As if you asked!”

“I did.  I swear it on the Maiden.”

At this the women fell about laughing at her confession. Raucous hoots and howls filling the small yard.

“What’s so funny?” asked a buxom woman joining them, plonking herself down on the wooden bench and leaning over to sort her laundry.

Sansa didn’t understand either.  There was absolutely nothing funny about swearing truths against the Seven.

“Oh Hettie…” wheezed a woman, red faced from laughing “Daisy 'ere reckons she asked to see The Hounds sword.”

 “Oh ho! Did she now?” said Hettie.

“I did,” insisted the flustered looking Daisy “but he just growled at me and told me to scurry away if I knew what was good for me.”

“Aye! Need to know what you’re doing with a fine instrument like that,” Hettie said humming loudly in appreciation.

This was met with further hums and nods of agreement from the other women.

‘What’s the big deal?’ wondered Sansa, ‘it's just a sword. Same as all the others I’ve seen. Just bigger.’

“So you’ve seen it… but have you _held_ it?”

“Aye,” nodded Hettie “that’s the real treat.  To hold such a magnificent tool in your hands” she said as she was haunched over the tub, scrubbing vigorously at the laundry, causing her generous bosom to jiggle and bounce, almost spilling out from her ill fitting bodice. 

The women fawned over Hettie, giggling and catcalling, pressing her for “Details”.

“Massive.  Long, smooth, hard as steel,” she said with a flourish.

‘Well of course it’s hard as steel’ scoffed Sansa to herself 'it's made of steel. What drivel these women talk. It's just a sword.’

“As if Hettie! You're having us on.  You think we believe _The Hound_ let you hold his sword.”

“He did.  And I won’t be swearing on the _Maiden,_ ” she retorted to whistles.

“Poppycock!  From what I saw, even you wouldn't even be able to grasp it in your hands.”

“Aye! Such a big, heavy tool.”

“No wonder he had muscles like an ox carrying that around.”

“I wouldn’t mind holding it for him... _relieve his burden_.”

“Such a heavy load.”

“Needs an ample sheath.”

The women continued to spar back and forth getting louder and more animated all the time, before dissolving into a round of raucous giggles.

Sansa didn’t understand their excitement.  She had the feeling she was misunderstanding the conversation.  Surely a sword is just a sword?  Perhaps she should ask Clegane to see his sword herself?  See what all the fuss is about.

Pulling herself away from stone pillar she had been leaning against, she dusted her skirts and brushed invisible wrinkles from the heavy damask fabric, before she changed direction and headed not towards the Sept but the sparring yard.

***

As chance would have it, when Sansa arrived at the sparring yard the Hound was just leaving, heading towards the armoury.  His path would intersect hers, so Sansa waited where she was and watched him come closer.  She couldn’t help but admire how strong and formidable he looked, she saw how sweat dampened his brow and matted his hair.

‘He needs a bath,’ she thought blushing at the impropriety.

“Ser Clegane,” Sansa greeted bobbing a courtesy, but he didn’t stop, he just strode purposefully right past her and into the armoury as if she hadn’t spoken a word.

Determined Sansa straightened her spine and followed him into the armoury.

“I beg pardon Ser,” she began, before noticing that as well as his armour he had also removed his tunic revealing an obscene amount of muscle.  Sansa blushed and averted her eyes quickly.

“Ser, I was wondering if you might be so kind,” Sansa began, unsure how to phrase her request, wishing she had thought this through more thoroughly.

“Not a Ser,” he mumbled as he began wiping down his chest with his dirty tunic, causing his muscles to ripple and flex. 

Sansa fidgeted nervously, all thoughts emptying from her mind at the sight.

“So?! What does a little bird want with an old dog?” he growled into the silence.

“Oh yes. I errrr…. I… I want to see your sword,” she blurted.  “The washerwomen at the well were very complimentary and I must admit to being envious of their having seen such a magnificent tool when I haven’t,” she continued feeling proud of herself for remembering the appropriate terms the washerwomen had used. “I’m not sure I understand what all the fuss is about.  To me one sword is much the same as another… but still I would be most obliged if you would show it to me.”

The Hound stared at her in silence.  His face impassive as stone but his eyes were a blazing grey fire.

“Or maybe, you would like me to hold it a while, to _relieve your burden_?” she said placing the same emphasis as the washerwomen.  “I’ve not held that many swords before.  Just Theon’s and Jory’s mostly.  Oh and Joffrey’s one time, but I wasn’t all that impressed with his if I’m honest.  It wasn’t as big or impressive as Jory’s.  Jory’s is definitely my favourite….. Oh, I mean,” she dropped off suddenly registering the shock and anger blazing across his face.

‘Oh no!  She suddenly realised she had insulted the Crown Prince, _her betrothed_ , by belittling his sword.  Sansa swallowed, suddenly nervous and now quite certain that she had indeed, misunderstood the conversation of the washerwomen, but still none the wiser as to how.

But she didn’t get chance to finish because Clegane abruptly turned on his heel and stormed out of the armoury.

“Seven fucking hells, I’ll gut those little shits,” echoed back to her. 

Sansa had a bad feeling about this.  Quickly she hurried after him calling out to him as she did so.

Abruptly he stopped and swung to face her, fury etched in the lines of his face. 

“What?” he snarled.

“Please Se… I mean Clegane,” she stuttered. “Please forgive me.  I was being unforgivably rude.  To compare one man's sword to another, it must be a prideful matter.  Please forget that I asked.  Anyhow, it surely can’t be as magnificent as my father's sword,” she finished contritely.

To her surprise he burst into loud, rasping peels of laughter.

“Little Bird…” he said shaking his head as amusement glinted in his eyes, “You and your fucking chripring.  You’ll be someone’s death one day.”

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Stark has an interesting encounter on his way back to the Tower of the Hand and is apprised of exactly what his daughter has been up to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back by popular demand! Sorry it's taken an age. I hope it's been worth the wait :D
> 
> As always feedback is most welcome <3
> 
> ****

Lord Eddard Stark was brooding as he walked the darkened corridors of the Red Keep back to the Tower of the Hand.  Jory Cassel walked with him in silence, the only sound the chink of their footsteps on the stone flagstones. Jory clearly sensed his need for silent contemplation and for this Lord Eddard was grateful.  It was late, well after dinner, and he’d only just finished a very long and trying Council meeting. 

‘Accepting the position of Hand of the King has been nothing short of one long headache,’ he thought.  

First there was Robert.  Trying to reign in both his profligate spending and his Targaryen witch-hunt.  Then there was half a realm of debt to navigate, which brought with it the unenviable task of having to deal with Petyr Baelish, and somehow finding the patience to tolerate his snide jibes about Catelyn and not plant a fist through his minty, ferret face.  There was simpering Grand Maester Pycelle and the obsequious Spider who always behaved as though he knew something that you didn’t. Queen Cersei is clearly rattled by my presence in Kings Landing for some unknown reason. Perhaps my potential to influence Robert or something more.  Ned couldn’t shake a gut feeling of unease about the Lannisters and the extent of their sway over the Crown.

Yes his problems were many and he was but one man - ‘a man highly unsuited to the intrigues and games of court,’ he thought.

Lord Eddard inhaled deeply and pinched his fingers into the bridge of his nose to try and the stem the throbbing headache across his eyes.

On top of this his shoulders and neck were tense and aching from spending until the hour of the bat poring over the weighty tomes delivered to him by Grand Maester Pycelle.  ‘ _ The Seed is Strong _ ,’ kept playing over in his mind.  What does it mean? Why was Jon Arryn so interested in the old lineages.  What was he looking for? And then there’s that Blacksmith boy, Gendry. He’s clearly one of Robert’s bastards, that’s as clear as the nose on my face, but how is it relevant? Why was he so interested in this particular boy?  Robert has half a dozen bastards all across the realm. It was a puzzle that Ned just couldn’t fathom.

Sweat trickled from his brow and he could feel his cotton under tunic sticking to his back and chest.  Another thing he couldn’t stand about the capital, the heat. He wasn’t sure which was worse, the heat or the stench.  Dung and unwashed bodies permeated the air of Kings Landing like the Sentinel Pines did at Winterfell. Ned longed for Winterfell.  For the fresh crisp air and the quiet peace of the Godswood. To feel the cold northern wind blow the cobwebs from his mind. To see his sons again.  But most of all he ached for his Lady Wife, for her sound counsel and comforting arms. ‘Oh Cat,’ he thought. 

On top of his ‘official’ problems there was the situation with his daughters and this ridiculous feud they were holding onto.  The thought of having to endure another painful dinner with insults and food flinging was enough to make him consider avoiding mealtimes altogether. That and Septa Mordane’s constant chiding about Arya’s antics and how her behaviour was ‘most ill-becoming of a young Lady of her station’.

Yes admittedly Arya was wild.  Wandering all over the Keep at all hours and showing up to dinner covered in scratches and bruises, looking as if she had spent the day rolling in dirt.  But she was a child of the North and she had a fierceness of spirit that reminded him so much of Lyanna he couldn’t bring himself to try and change her.

And then there is Sansa.  Sweet, gentle, naive Sansa who won’t even speak to me since that business at the Trident.  I’m losing her. Losing her to Joffrey and the Queen, they hold far too much influence over her.  He had noticed how she now wore her hair in the southron style, and how she favoured the light silks and ornate dresses of the court over her northern attire.  Only eleven but such a beauty already, a true Lady like her mother. Wasted on that petulant prince but there was no way for him to break the betrothal without raising Robert’s ire, even if he could find a way to get Sansa to agree.  

His daughters.  His pride. His worry.  

Whatever was he to do with them? Again he wished fervently that Catelyn were here.  She would know better how to handle the girls. 

A cough from Jory and a mumbled ‘My Lord,’ interrupted his reverie and alerted him to the presence of someone waiting at the foot of the Tower of the Hand.  It was Sandor Clegane, the Hound.

Perfect! Exactly what he didn’t need right now, a confrontation with the Princes’ Sworn Shield.  He could not forget the look on Clegane’s face the day that he had rode down the butcher’s boy and he had found it hard to hide his contempt for the man ever since.

“Lord Stark,” greeted Clegane in that grating rasp of his.

“Clegane,” he replied with a curt nod, making to step past the man and proceed on up to his chambers, but Clegane stepped into his path.  

“A word of advice Stark.  Best talk to that daughter of yours about entering the sparring barracks unaccompanied and asking to hold a man’s  _ sword _ .  Never know what trouble she’ll end up in,” said Clegane.

Lord Eddard wasn’t sure that he had either heard nor understood Clegane correctly.  His already over-taxed brain just could not process the words and their implication.  Thankfully Jory stepped up for him.

“Now listen here Clegane.  I don’t know exactly what you’re trying to imply but let me be clear.  Any threat to the safety or virtue of My Lord’s daughter’s, either of them, will be met with northern justice.”

Clegane straightened to his full height and pushed his chest out.  

“I’m not  _ implying _ anything.  Stating facts as they happened is all.  The girl asked to hold my sword and ease my  _ burden _ bold as brass.  And there’s no threat Cassel, so calm your bluster.” 

“Which daughter?” Lord Eddard finally managed to squeak out of his dry throat.

“The Lady Sansa,” replied Clegane, the burned corner of his mouth twitching.

All three were silent for a moment whilst the implication of Clegane’s words sank in.  

Lord Eddard was dumbfounded. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  Sansa? His sweet, innocent little Sansa. There had to be some misunderstanding.  Sansa was so  _ good _ .  He couldn’t believe it of her.  Wouldn’t believe it of her. 

“Sansa?” repeated Ned at a loss for anything else to say or do.  

“Aye, and to hear her tell it she’s a rather experienced swordswoman.  Held all manner of swords,” said Clegane, “Not too impressed with the Prince’s mind,” he added almost as an afterthought.

The throbbing in his head intensified.  Had he really been so preoccupied that his daughter had been cavorting in the training barracks and… and… 

Unable to resist inflaming the situation further Clegane shot a wicked smirk at Jory and rolled his tongue across his teeth.

“But apparently her favourite  _ sword  _ belongs to your Captain of the Guard’s here.  By far the biggest and most impressive tool she’s stroked, to hear her tell it.”  

Automatically Ned turned to look at Jory whose face had visibly paled, eyes wide in horror, mouth gaping open like a fish.

“My Lord, I never… she never… we never.  Honestly My Lord, I don’t know what he’s on about.” stuttered Jory taking a step backwards.

Clegane turned and walked away, an odd gravelly, grating sound echoing back. It took Lord Stark a moment to realise it was laughter.

“Talk to her Stark.”

 


End file.
